


when you move, I move

by stelleappese



Category: Gomorra - La Serie | Gomorrah (TV), L'Immortale | The Immortal (2019)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, that's literally it lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22173415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: “I would let them all burn.” he whispers.“I can’t do that.” Genny says, shaking his head.“Then we’ll do whatever needs to be done.” Ciro says.Spoilers(ish) for L'Immortale.
Relationships: Ciro Di Marzio/Gennaro "Genny" Savastano
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	when you move, I move

**Author's Note:**

> This series ruined my life, pass it on.

The eerie northern light seeps in oblong shapes through the blinds. The wind has risen all of a sudden; it howls and moans mournfully. Something (a gate, a door) slams rhythmically in the distance.

Ciro sits on the couch, silent, and watches as Genny peeks through one of the roundish holes in the blinds to look out at the compound. Patches of fragile light fall all over him, too; they highlight small bits of him, one of his eyes, the tip of his ear, a knuckle, a spot under his mouth.

“Feels like dawn,” he says, thoughtfully, when he finally speaks. “One of those winter dawns near the sea.”

“What happened?” Ciro asks. 

Genny doesn’t answer immediately. He sighs, first, stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“The same thing that’s always happening. There’s a war coming.” 

Genny shakes his head, just once, then he looks at his feet.

“It was stupid of me to think I could just… stop.”

He gives Ciro a look.

For the longest time, after Genny pointed a gun at Ciro’s head, he’d been unreadable to him. He’d learned the hard way to keep his thoughts, his worries, his victories, to himself. Everything Ciro got from him was because Genny wanted him to know. 

But there were small things, here and there. Things Ciro gathered from Genny’s clenched jaw, from his hunched shoulders, from a wistful look, a word or two pronounced with more softness than the rest.

The look he’s giving him now, though, is as open and clear as the ones Genny used to shoot him when he was a kid.

“It’s not your fault.” Ciro says.   
“I would have had everything under control if I’d just had the balls to stay,” Genny snorts. “I wasted the peace. I wasted your life, too.”  
“I didn’t want it, anyway.” Ciro says, and Genny, in spite of himself, smiles.

Ciro gets off the couch; he walks up to Genny, tilts his head as he looks up at him.

“I would let them all burn.” he whispers.   
“I can’t do that.” Genny says, shaking his head.   
“Then we’ll do whatever needs to be done.” Ciro says.

Genny’s face has become unreadable again. 

He reaches out, molds a hand to the side of Ciro’s face, his thumb brushing against Ciro’s cheekbone for a moment. Then he straightens himself up and, methodically, starts unbuttoning Ciro’s shirt. Once he’s done that, he slips a hand underneath his undershirt. 

Genny’s hand feels warm, big, against Ciro’s ribcage; he breathes in sharply when his fingers touch the scar on Ciro’s chest. 

There’s a brief moment, a blink of an eye, in which Genny’s face is as honest as it’s ever been. There’s anger, there, and grief, and regret.   
He looks like he wants to say something, but then he just kisses Ciro instead.   
It’s a deep, slow, immensely _delicate_ kind of kiss; as if Genny were scared even kissing Ciro too hard could hurt him. 

And Ciro, who’s spent months, years, feeling numb and unreal, who sometimes feels as if he still were stuck at the bottom of the sea -the dark, the quiet, the pressure,- Ciro feels utterly and completely _aware_. Genny’s breath on his lips makes his head spin; the way he cups the back of Ciro’s head to pull him closer makes shivers run down his spine; Genny’s palm pressing against his ribs fills him with such a foreign, throbbing, sweet ache.

Genny doesn’t seem to perceive the revelation that’s exploding inside Ciro’s chest; he doesn’t seem to perceive the sheer _magnitude_ of it. He presses their foreheads together, his nose brushing against Ciro’s, and says: “It’s not fair. You fixed things once, and I fucked it up. It’s not fair that I keep pulling you back into this shit.”

Ciro shakes his head. He takes a step back, but he doesn’t have it in him to break contact with Genny, doesn’t have it in him to feel the cold bite at his skin, were Genny to stop touching him.

“I did this to you.” he says. 

He wants to explain, but he finds himself shutting his mouth instead.

He wants to tell Genny about the nights he spent battling ghosts, about the fact he, too, is among them. Not this Genny, no; not the Genny who came back from Honduras, not the Genny he shot in the face. The Genny who was killed by Ciro; the teenage boy who talked big but blushed every time Ciro looked at him, the kid who bashfully told Ciro his biggest wish was finding his one true love and spending his life with them, and who fully believed, as he said it, that Ciro couldn’t hear the hopefulness in his voice, couldn’t see the look in those big dark eyes of his.

Genny can keep thinking he had no other choice in life; that it was the fact he came from two bloodlines of murderers that condemned him, but Ciro knows better. Ciro knows Genny could have saved himself. He knows Ciro is to blame for making him into who he is today.

And yet, Ciro thinks, resting both hands on the sides of Genny’s neck and pressing their foreheads back together, feeling Genny’s hand move from his chest to his back to hold him closer, and yet. Even now, with his face scarred, his hands bloody, countless dead in his wake; even now, there is such _tenderness_ in him.

“We’ll do whatever needs to be done.” Ciro repeats, eyes closed, skin covered in goosebumps.


End file.
